P A R T T H R E E
If the doors of perception were cleansed
every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.
- William Blake, Songs of Innocence and Experience
-1-
The eighteenth century definition of "intellectual" was "beyond the senses".1 This brings to mind the question of just what "the senses" are: are they only the five that we take for granted everyday, sight, sound, touch, speech, and smell? And if these are the five senses that we have, then just what is "intellectual", what is "beyond the senses"? Is there some other sense that we have, a sense that, if recognized, would begin to shed light upon immortal possibilities? William Blake asks us,2
How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?
This inquiry starts by questioning what we "know", or what we claim to "know", and, having established that our "knowledge" is in question, he continues, with a concept that most people would sneer at as nonsensical. Had he stopped this question at "...world of delight", the question would be questionable, for the response could be, "A 'Bird' can not be 'an immense world of delight', no matter how big the 'Bird' may be." However, he did not finish his question at "...of delight", rather, he sculpted the question from a question at us to a question about us - by asking us about our "senses five". Now the "Bird", which before could be understood consistently as a feathered, winged, ornithological creature, and definitely not "an immense world of delight", finds itself subject to us determining if we only think of it as a "Bird" because of some limiting factor inherent in our physical bodies, some hiccup in our bio-chemical brain, some electrical malfunction that does not allow us to experience and perceive at the fullest level possible. Even more powerful is the fact that Blake writes "ev'ry Bird", not singular, as I have been using as example, for simplicity's sake. But consider it in the plural - "ev'ry Bird" could be "an immense world of delight". This may seem too fantastical, the idea that all the feathered creatures outside flying around are really different worlds of paradise, but the notion itself is one that must be examined if one is going to look for some sort of answer for the search for "truths", "truths" that the mind knows, "truths" that are the gateway to just what the terms of immortality are.
How can one go "beyond the senses", as it were? And once "there", would "wisdom" be found? One way of approaching such a dilemma is to consider the way in which we perceive things, the terms we use to describe those perceptions, as well as the judgments we make on those perceptions, whether calling them "real" or "un-real", based on a set of criteria that we have consciously established in reference to what we see everyday. What if there were certain, spontaneous instances when what we were accustomed to for experience and perception became a type of experience that we knew was not physically happening in front of us, but that did not qualify as "un-real"? And what if in these instances we became aware of ideas that offered clues to the "wisdom" that we had been searching for?
In the First Part of Wordsworth's two-part Prelude (1798-99), he describes these instances of alternative perception, which he dubs "spots of time".
There are in our existence spots of time
Which with distinct pre-eminence retain
A fructifying virtue, whence, depressed
By trivial occupations and the round
Of ordinary intercourse, our minds
(Especially the imaginative power)
Are nourished, and invisibly repaired[.] (ll. 258-65)
"There are", he says, not "might be", not "seem to be", but "are" these occurrences; he does not use a cautionary term of perception for these events that could be and often times are deemed "un-real". Also, they "are in our existence", not in some other realm. The plural "our" implies that they are events that are phenomena occurring not only to a select few, but to all of us, during the course of "our" lifetimes, "our existence". These, then, are the "spots of time". But what are they exactly? Wordsworth answers this question by way of explaining how it is that they come about, first saying that they "retain/ A fructifying virtue" "with distinct pre-eminence". This is important to notice before reading any further, for, in the lines that follow this statement, the reason for this retention is clarified. The "spots of time" keep a "fructifying virtue", a power to revitalize, breathe new, refreshed life into, presumably, us. This Wordsworth himself sees as crucial, by saying that the "spots" "retain [this] fructifying virtue" "with distinct pre-eminence", with great importance.
In the 1805 text of The Prelude, Wordsworth, in incorporating the "spots of time" into Book XI (ll. 258-65), added these two lines, which would precede line 291 of the 1798-99 text:
By false opinion and contentious thought,
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, (ll. 261-62)
The addition of these two lines makes the "spots of time" have even more of a "fructifying virtue" than the earlier text, for it is not only "trivial occupations and the round/ Of ordinary intercourse" that they are saving us from in this later text. This addition demonstrates that these "spots" occur when we are "depressed/ By false opinion and contentious thought,/ Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,/ By trivial occupations and the round/ Of ordinary intercourse", and therefore their great importance, for these causes can lead us away from our learning and understanding our existence, and thereby our search for "wisdom" ends. All the events that he speaks of, from "depressed" on line 260 to "ordinary intercourse" on line 262 (1798-99 text), are events that happen on a day-to-day level, an "adult" level, a level which is seen as "reality". But the words Wordsworth uses to describe these ordinary events seem to show nigh-contempt for them: "false opinion", "ordinary thought". Even "aught of heavier or more deadly weight" appears to be cynical, as it is placed between these "false" and "ordinary" things and "trivial occupations" and "ordinary intercourse". It would also seem to echo Tintern Abbey and "the heavy and the weary weight" (40) that Wordsworth tells us is "[o]f all this unintelligible world" (41).3 It is because of these normal, "ordinary", "trivial" events that we require the "fructifying virtue" of the "spots of time", for it is through them that "our minds/ (Especially the imaginative power)/ Are nourished, and invisibly repaired". As before, the use of the plural "our" with "minds" implies a sense of collectivity which, as will be demonstrated at length, is essential for any sort of comprehension of the chances of immortality. The parenthetical remark of "([e]specially the imaginative power)", as it follows "our minds", implies that we all have this "imaginative power", for it is possessed by the "our" from "our minds". It also explains that these "spots of time", in addition to being able to "nourish" and "repair" "our minds", are capable of "nourish[ing]" and "repair[ing]" "our" "imaginative power". This is an important issue, as we have seen previously, in Book V of The Prelude (1805),4 an issue that is vital for the consideration of immortal possibilities.
How is it, then, that "our minds.../ Are nourished and...repaired" by these "spots of time"? We can see why we need them, but what is it exactly that they do to replenish "our minds" from the "ordinary" nature of everyday thought?
In the 1805 text of The Prelude, Book XI, Wordsworth expands on the nature of these "spots of time", an addition not present in the original 1798-99 text. Here he continues to communicate the power of these occurrences, further explaining that they are
[a] virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.
This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks
Among those passages of life in which
We have had deepest feeling that the mind
Is lord and master, and that outward sense
Is but the obedient servant of her will. (ll. 266-73)
It would seem that Wordsworth is expressing more than is present at the surface level of the words in his poems. The associative properties, not only of place, but of each little, oftentimes seemingly ordinary thing is of the greatest of importance for the recollection of memories of an experience long past. "[P]leasure is enhanced", we read, by these changes of experience, and here is where we can truly start to analyze these "spots of time", events that lead to visionary experience. By "enhanc[ing]" "pleasure", the "spots of time" allow us to go beyond the "ordinary" events that we are subject to everyday, events that only require limited use of our five senses. We can go beyond these five with this "enhance[ment]", for we are "penetrate[d]" by this "virtue". Through this we are "enable[d]" to glimpse that which lies beyond the limits of the five senses that we use. This is not to say that we are unable to sense this visionary experience, rather, we are able to do so, but because we do not use the sensory apparatus that is necessary for this perception often enough, and with not enough belief in it, those senses are more difficult to utilize, and require this "penetrat[ion]" into us. Through this we are elevated, and able to access "those passages of life in which/ We have had the deepest feeling that the mind/ Is lord and master". This would lead to the argument that this/these sense/s is/are "in" the mind, the soul. When these events happen, or come to be, "outward sense/ Is but the obedient servant of her will", and the mind/soul takes over. These "passages of life" can be equated with our memories, since they are just that. This applies on a higher level as well, for these "passages" can be interpreted as not only the events "of life", but metaphorically as the neural-pathways of the brain as well, pathways that conduct the energy, which is inherent as memory, which is causally dependent upon the brain for residence. This is Blake's "energy as eternal delight", Coleridge and Shelley's "vital fluids", and Wordsworth's "power". Through these we can start to analyze just what our "immortal part" is. If indeed it is our mind, an intangible thing, and memories, energy, intangible as well, are linkable with the mind, then these memories are what our "immortal part" is.
In returning to the original text for the "spots of time", which was later revised for the 1805 edition, we read, as Wordsworth continues, further praise, and an explanation from where these temporary changes in perception come:
Such moments chiefly seem to have their date
In our first childhood. (ll. 295-96)
In the 1805 version we have these additions, which I have placed in italics:
Such moments, worthy of all gratitude,
Are scattered everywhere, taking their date
From our first childhood: in our childhood even
Perhaps are most conspicuous. (XI.274-77)
The 1805 text shows, more so than the original, that there are not only a limited amount of these "spots of time", for he says that they "[a]re scattered everywhere". But where? Where are they if they are indeed "scattered everywhere"? It would seem that they are inherent in our memories, our mind, for, as Wordsworth tells us, they "chiefly seem to have their date/ In our first childhood". Unless one is a child, "childhood" is a thing of the past, something we can only remember, or attempt to remember. These memories, from "our childhood", are what allow us to decipher these "moments", for they, the "moments", are "most conspicuous" then. The modes of perception employed in childhood are not the same ones that are used in adult thought; perception and decisions on what is "real" and "un-real" are more open to subjectivity, and therefore the visions from these "moments" are not questioned. When, as adults, we experience these "moments", to be able to realize and accept that which we are experiencing, we must rely upon those modes of thought from childhood, and return to the "open-mindedness" that we had then. These childhood memories, then, are crucial if we are to fully appreciate these visionary experiences.
Another addition to the 1805 "spots of time" passage is the following:
Life with me,
As far as memory can look back, is full
Of this beneficent influence. (XI.277-79)
This more fully explains the notion of childhood memories being of the utmost importance for the realization of these "moments", for, in analyzing the construct developed in these three lines, we can see more clearly just how dependent we are upon our childhood for our personal existence. "Life with me", that is, one's life, "[a]s far as memory can look back", our earliest memories from childhood, resident in, but not permanently dependent upon, their brain cell locations, "is full/ Of this beneficent influence". That is to say, "this... influence" is dependent upon memory, and, further, that "[l]ife" is the culmination these memories, as far as personal identity and continuity are concerned, and therefore "[l]ife... is full/ Of this beneficent influence". In this way our memories allow us to ascertain that we are the same person we were yesterday, and the day before, etc., back to childhood, and, because of those memories from childhood, we are given the ability to recognize these "spots of time". This gives us a clue as to what our "extra" sense/s is/are, for, if these memories allow us to experience something that is not perceivable with our "senses five", then they must have some relation to any sense/s beyond the five we employ everyday. We will return to this point and examine it more fully, but first, to be able to do so, we must look at what the realizations and "new" understandings that we are given upon (and after) the occurrence of these "spots of time".
Wordsworth recounts a tale from his childhood, "[w]hile [he] was yet an urchin", at line 299 of the 1798-99 text, when he and "honest James" went horse riding. The two are separated, and young Wordsworth comes upon a clearing where "[a] man, the murderer of his wife, was hung in irons" years ago (309-12) - "[o]nly a long green ridge of turf remained" (312). This he sees, and says,
I left the spot
And, reascending the bare slope, I saw
A naked pool that lay beneath the hills,
The beacon on the summit, and more near,
A girl who bore a pitcher on her head
And seemed with difficult steps to force her way
Against the blowing wind. It was in truth
An ordinary sight but I should need
Colours and words that are unknown to man
To paint the visionary dreariness
Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide,
Did at that time invest the naked pool,
The beacon on the lonely eminence,
The woman and her garments vexed and tossed
By the strong wind. (ll. 313-27)
At first glance, there would seem to be nothing extraordinary about this scene: young Wordsworth sees where a murderer had been "hung/ In irons", leaves the area, and sees a girl with a water vessel on her head. Wordsworth himself admits to the seeming normality of this scene, in lines 319 to 320, when he says, "It was in truth/ An ordinary sight". However, in closely studying the words used and the imagery created, the scene leaves normality and ascends to visionary heights. He says that he "left the spot" where the "ridge of turf" was. By using the word "spot" the reader is reminded of that which this lengthy passage is about, the "spots of time"; the word "spot" here is almost a cue for the event to happen in the text. The next four lines, after "I left the spot", 314 to 317, are descriptions of perception, just prior to the visionary experience. We are told that in "reascending the bare common" he "saw". Before analyzing that which he "saw", it is important to notice the use of the word "reascending" here, for it seems to reappear in the 1805 text in lines 267 and 268 where Wordsworth, in explaining the "virtue" of the "spots of time", uses the words "mount" and "[w]hen high, more high". It would seem that the use of the word "reascending" is used in the same manner, and applies to not only the physical action of moving up onto the "bare slope", but to that which he "saw" as well. Returning to the original text, the things that he "saw" were "[a] naked pool that lay beneath the hills,/ The beacon on the summit, and...a girl who bore a pitcher on her head". The "pool...beneath the hills" would seem an impossible thing for someone to "see", per se, as it is "beneath the hills". Admittedly, this may simply be a different way of saying "at the bottom of the hills" - but he does not say that. He specifically chooses to use the word "beneath" to give spatial location to the "pool". So the first thing that he "saw" is out of the range of seeing through the naked eye, when taken literally. The next object he tells us that he "saw" is the "beacon on the summit". This object is spatially far away from Wordsworth, for, when he tells us of the "girl", he tells us that she is "more near". That would place this "beacon" of light at a distance from him. Metaphorically speaking, this "beacon" can be connected with the way we perceive things when using ordinary thought, as it is not "more near" him, and, as he is about to write, as he is experiencing one of these "spots of time". Finally, we have the "girl who bore a pitcher on her head", struggling with "the blowing wind". One would think that this was ordinary enough. But Wordsworth tells us, "...I should need/ Colours and words that are unknown to man,/ To paint the visionary dreariness" of this scene. This is an important issue, for it stresses that there are linguistic failures in the language that we use for explaining how we experience things, how we "see" things. The language we currently use is not one that allows us to correctly describe our various experiences beyond some sort of iconographical description, some sort of generalization of what we have experienced that falls short of what we actually have gone through. This does not allow us tell anyone about what we have seen, other than some vague interpretation of it, unless we are willing to go to great lengths to go around the words, and even then we still do not express that which we intend to. Therefore, Wordsworth needs to say that this "visionary dreariness" "[d]id, at that time, invest the naked pool,/ The beacon.../ [and t]he woman" as he says that he "looked all round for [his] lost guide", for, if he did not make the specification that it was "at that time" that these "[c]olours and words...unknown to man" were perceivable on the "bare slope", then it would not make any "sense" that he could not see his guide (since he is able to see this "visionary dreariness").5 William Blake eloquently explains this difficulty with our language for describing experience, as he tells us that
We are led to believe a lie
When we see with not through the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night
When the soul slept in beams of light.6
The italics here are Blake's, which shows that he himself is stressing the difference between seeing "with" and seeing "through" the eye. When one sees "with" the eye, it is a process of the reflection of light off the retina, in through the optic nerve, and into the brain to register as an image, thus, we "see" the object. When one sees "through" the eye, it is a different matter. One does not need to have one's eye open to see "through" it. This is not to say that the eye can not be open when we see "through" it, but it does not need to be. It is in seeing "through" the eye that we are enabled to see more fully, that we are enabled to perceive more of what is perceivable than if we only see "with" the eye. One can see both "with" and "through" the eye at the same time, and by doing so, more of that which is perceivable, capable of being experienced, can be had. For example, in looking at this page, and seeing "with" the eye the characters that culminate into words and sentences, one can also look "through" the eye and see, say, the restaurant where dinner was eaten last evening, or a particularly beautiful sunset that was present years ago during a vacation. In seeing these past events, these memories, the page does not become un-seeable, for it is being seen in a different manner from the restaurant or the sunset. Where does one see these memories? Is there some sort of viewing room in the brain that allows for seeing them? Physiologically speaking, no, there is not. But that does not make this phenomena any less real, nor does it disprove its existence. It is a matter of overcoming the "lie" that Blake tells us "[w]e are led to believe", the "lie" that we can only see "with" the eye. The question here is "who leads us to believe this lie?", and the answer would be "us". We convince ourselves that that which exists, that which is "real", is that which we can see "with" the eye, and dismiss the rest of perception as "un-real". Our language does not allow us to define the fine nuances in that which we experience, and therefore it is easier to categorize our experiences as "real" or "un-real", based on linguistic failures. To explain how the "eye...was born in a night to perish in a night" while "the soul slept in beams of light" seems very difficult, for how can one thing, the "eye", be "born" and then "perish in a night" when, at the same time, "the soul" is "sle[eping] in beams of light"? Upon closer examination, this would seem to offer another doorway through which we can catch a glimpse of potential immortal possibilities, for it would imply that the "eye" is a temporary object, subject to physical laws, destined "to perish". The "soul"/mind, however, can "sle[e]p in beams of light" while this is going on, the "beams of light" being the "vital fluids", "power", or energy that are our memories (which are causally dependent upon the brain for their location). By searching out and realizing the difference between these two ways of seeing, we can attempt to discover what is capable with this "extra" sense, and possibly be able to create a better way of discussing it by adapting the linguistic forms that we now use.
Percy Bysshe Shelley presents us with the tale of a young poet who wishes to seek out "what we are" in his Alastor; or, the Spirit of Solitude, written in 1816. In doing so he enables us to examine the way we look at things, how we perceive, and the differences in the ways that we experience different events.
I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. (ll. 20-29)
Before we examine the words chosen by Shelley to describe his poet's quest for "what we are", it proves worthwhile to take a look at the title of this poem, and the meaning of it. Shelley tells us in his Preface to this poem that this poem "may be considered as allegorical as one of the most interesting situations of the human mind." This situation is one where the poet in the poem "drinks deep of the fountains of knowledge and is still insatiate." In doing this, the physical realm of the universe ceases to interest him, it "sinks profoundly into the frame of his conceptions", and he begins to search out "objects...infinite and unmeasured, he is joyous and tranquil and self-possessed." The joy in this is soon unfulfilling, and he feels that "[h]is mind is at length suddenly awakened and thirst for intercourse with an intelligence similar to itself." This would seem to be similar to ceasing to see "with" the eye, and only "through" it - and this proves devastating. One can not turn entirely inward to examine that which is within, for we are physical creatures that require interaction with the external world for memories, those things which are within. Without these interactions, we cease to have new experiences, our physical senses and perceptions are neglected, and we fall victim to what happens to the poet, as we will see in examining the poem.
Thomas Peacock, Shelley's close friend, explains the actual title of the poem, saying that Shelley "was at a loss for a title".
I proposed that which he adopted: Alastor; or, the Spirit of Solitude. The Greek word, 'Αλαστωρ, is an evil genius, κακοδαιμων....The poem treated the spirit of solitude as a spirit of evil.
This concept of solitude is important, for it is slightly different from the type of solitude mentioned in discussing Wordsworth's Lucy Gray.7 In Lucy Gray we are presented with a state of solitude that is meditative and helpful, here we are faced with a solitude that is destructive and evil. The main difference between the two depictions would seem to be one of extent. Wordsworth's Lucy continues to interact with the world around her - she is alone, but she continues to perceive and experience that which is around her, and her solitude is not associated with evil. Shelley's young poet, however, attempts to go beyond the realms of solitude, attempts to sever the link between the outside world and himself, and in doing so does not allow himself to be able to interact and experience with outward things. The solitude depicted in Shelley's poem draws a fine line between examining those things which happen in a realm of solitude, phenomena, and being able to return from that solitude and attempt to interpret what has been experienced. Without the latter, the former may as well not happen, for there is only an audience of one for it, and, if not discussed, a linguistic construct can not be formed to make discussing these experiences in solitude easier.
Shelley makes a distinct difference between the ways of seeing things, as he uses the words "watched" and "gazes", the former being for the more physical realm, the latter for that which can not be seen "with" the eye. "I have watched/ Thy shadow", he writes, by making his "bed/ In charnels and coffins, where black death/ Keeps record of the trophies won from thee". At the same time his "heart gazes on the depth/ Of thy deep mysteries". The "[t]hy", in both cases, is the possessive of the "belovèd brotherhood" of "Earth, Ocean, [and] Air".8 By looking in these two ways he hopes "to still the obstinate questionings/ Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,/ Thy messenger, to render up the tale/ Of what we are." The "obstinate questionings" are taken from Wordsworth, line 142 of the Ode,9 and the similarity in the way that Shelley treats these "questionings" is intriguing, for he adds a twist to them that, although present in Wordsworth, is not looked into in depth. For Wordsworth, the "questionings" are "[o]f sense and outward things", experiences that do not fall into our normal definition of "reality". In Shelley's case, the same can be said, for he wants "to still these obstinate questionings", "questionings" that are of the "belovèd brotherhood" of the elements, essentially "outward things". At this point it would seem that both authors are trying to redefine "reality". However, where Wordsworth stops, Shelley continues, saying that he not only wants these "questionings" to stop, but that he wants "some lone ghost...to render up the tale/ Of what we are." Having a better way of expressing our experiences is not enough for Shelley's poet; he wants to know "what we are" that we are able to have experiences.
In Stanza V of his Hymn to Intellectual Beauty (1816), Shelley tells us that "[w]hile yet a boy I sought for ghosts,...pursuing/ Hopes of high talk with the departed dead". Could these "ghosts" be of the same nature of the "ghost" that the poet is attempting to "force" into "render[ing] up the tale"? One would think so. But, where the poet tries to escape life, and looks to "where black death/ Keep[s] record[s]", Shelley, as a "boy", does just the opposite: "When, musing deeply on the lot/ Of life.../ Sudden thy shadow fell on me;/ I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy!" In seeking these "ghosts", young Shelley is unable to find any; it is when he is not seeking them, but rather "musing deeply on the lot/ Of life" that these "ghosts" appear. Similarly, the poet in Alastor is described as "forcing some lone ghost". By attempting to "force" the appearance of this perception, he is bound to fail, in the end. For young Shelley, the perception of theses apparitions does not cause him fear, rather, he "shriek[s] and clasp[s] [his] hands in ecstasy!" He is not merely pleased, or surprised, but he is "ecsta[tic]", beyond the bounds of normal sensation and experience. This would be, in Wordsworth's words, a "spot of time". As we will see shortly, there is good reason why young Shelley is able to be moved in this way, and why the poet in Alastor is not.
In looking for "what we are", Shelley tells us that he feels "[l]ike an inspired and desperate alchemist"10 as he attempts "To render up thy charge"11, the charge of the "brotherhood" of the elements. This is an interesting concept, that to find out "what we are" he needs to "render up [the] charge" of the elements, as well as saying that he feels like "an inspired and desperate alchemist", implying that if he discovers "what we are" he will be able to bestow life upon non-living things. This idea we will return to later, after we examine the phenomena of visionary experience, and how our senses are enhanced by it.
As has already been mentioned, trying to force these "ghosts", these experiences, to unfold, will lead to disappointment, as Shelley discovers, saying, to that which he is pursuing,though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man. (ll. 37-49)
By saying "ne'er yet" a feeling of optimism is established, that, although that which he seeks has not been revealed, it most likely will be, as the "yet" generates that possibility. More important is where this secret is located by Shelley's use of the word "inmost", and, three lines later, "within me". Although Shelley's poet is looking for something outside of himself to reveal that which "we are", some "lone ghost", the more the poem progresses and the more the poet says, the more it comes to be revealed that "what we are" is an inner thing, things - memories - and through this we can see that the experience is to be found within him.
Next we are told that this "inmost sanctuary" has not been "unveiled" from "incommunicable dream". This seems reminiscent of Wordsworth's difficulty with "[c]olours and words...unknown to man" to describe his experience, the notion of "incommunicab[ility]", or, linguistic failings to explain the finer nuances of perception. Entwined in this are extreme contrasts imaged as Shelley juxtaposes the words "twilight phantasms" and "deep noonday thought" against one another, followed by a transformation of words, black characters on white paper, presented in a coded fashion to create an objectively understandable sequence of ideas, into a scene that depicts this alteration in perception that is his "incommunicable dream", his visionary experience. There is the "long-forgotten lyre/ Suspended in the solitary dome" which is "moveless", creating a sense that it has been taken out of time, therefore in this "mysterious and deserted fane". This is an instant from the past frozen and not allowed to continue carrying along in the same temporal fashion as everything else; it is made "immortal", in part. The "solitary dome" gives a feeling of solitude to this altered moment, as well as challenges our imagination as readers, to attempt to image this scene. Were this the only occasion that this sort of word/image play occurs, it might be easily overlooked, seen as simply a vague reference to some hint of eternity. However, as the poem progresses and the poet becomes deeper and deeper entrenched in his inner world and experiences, disregarding the external world as he does this, Shelley's attempts at bending the conventional laws of the way we interpret objects and events become more and more elaborate, closer and closer to writing the perception of the experiences. Lines 48 to 49 present us with the idea of "woven hymns/ Of night and day". Again we have the extreme contrast in events, "night and day", which leads to a contrast in illumination, dark and light, but the two require one another for either's existence. In this way they are "woven hymns", obviously, it would seem. This, however, is not a normal way to describe the 24 hour cycle of the rotation of the earth, and the influence of the sun upon that which we term "night and day". But in and of the relationship between the two, "woven hymns" does with words that which the interplay between the light and dark do. Even further, we have the hope that "[his] strain/ May modulate with murmurs of the air,/ And motions of the forests and the sea,/ And voice of living beings". The "night and day" interplay follows this, concluding with "the deep heart of man". He wishes to become one with the "modulat[ions]" of sound in the "air", with the "motions of the forests and...seas", events that happen, but at different level than we do. Or do they? "[M]odulat[ions]" of sound are nothing more than variations in the frequencies of energy, vibrating and travelling through the air such that they are translated as sound when received through our ears. "And motions of the forests and...seas" are due to the force of the wind's energy moving the trees and the water. And we function due to electrical impulses coursing through our brains and bodies, and these transferences of energy result in us living. So for a person to become one with these apparently separate events is not such a difficult for one to hypothesize upon, since sounds are dependent upon energy, as is movement, and are we.
Shelley's knowledge of electricity stemmed from, apart from various experiments performed while at Oxford, reading, among other things, Humphry Davy's Elements of Chemical Philosophy (1812). On pages 65 through 67 of this we have the forms of matter broken down into "four distinct classes", which are "solids...fluids...elastic fluids or gases...[and] ethereal substances [or] imponderable substances". In reference to the latter, Davy claims that
[i]t cannot be doubted that there is matter in motion in space, between the sun and the stars and our globe, though it is a subject of discussion whether successions of particles be emitted from these heavenly bodies, or motions communicated by them, to particles in their vicinity, and transmitted by successive impulses to other particles.12
Davy also discusses the occurrence of "electrically excited" materials, through which a "peculiar subtile fluid" can "by its motion and transfer...produce the electrical phaenomena".13 With this established, Davy continues, delving into a discussion "[o]f Radiant or Ethereal Matter", in which "the Effects of radiant Matter, in Producing the Phaenomena of 'Vision'" is examined.14 On page 216 he says that "[Newton] has put the query whether light and common matter are not convertible...to each other". In this manner we can infer that Shelley, with this type of information, could indeed consider the possibility of his "strain" "modulat[ing] with the murmurs of the air,/ And motions of the forests and the sea".
Through this we can see how this action can bring him together with the "voice of living beings...and the deep heart of man", collective units that can only exist in their collectivity, their interaction with one another, for it is this sort of collectivity that becomes apparent as the similarities between the differences in various events are discussed and examined.
-2-
After this introductory section of the poem, Shelley turns to tell us of a young poet, the "hero" of the poem, saying this of him:
He lived, he died, he sung in solitude. (line 60)
Even the way this line reads exhibits a solitary feeling; it is entirely lacking in any sort of values or feelings attached to the events. His life, his death, period. But we are told that, during his life, "he sung in solitude". This must be noticed, for it is the reason that this line is treated with so little emotion, as the poem builds upon this life of solitude, and the reasons for the poet's death.
By solemn vision and bright silver dream
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. (ll. 66-70)
In his childhood, the poet does see both "with" and "through" his eyes, for we are told that it is "[b]y solemn vision and bright silver dream" that he was "nurtured", the former being "with", ordinary sight, the latter being "through", "dream[s]" that we perceive. Even more, we are told that is not only selected events and perceptions that he experiences with fervor, but that it is "[e]very sight/ And sound". This "[e]very" is made even more all-inclusive by the explanation that these perceptions are from "the vast earth and [the] ambient air", where the word "vast" brings thoughts of great magnitude and volume, and the word "ambient" alludes to pleasant modes of feeling. The word "air" returns one's thoughts to the "murmurs of the air" from line 46, and the hopes to become one with them is reflected here in the fact that the "ambient air/ Sent to his heart its choicest impulses." Here again we have allusion to energy (with the word "impulses"), as before, bringing flesh and blood together with the external elements of the "belovèd brotherhood". It is with this sort of upbringing, where his perception is both that of the external and the internal world, and the melding of the two together, where one is not seen as more valid and "real" than the other, that his youth consists of. However, Shelley tells us that "[w]hen early youth had passed, he left...[t]o seek strange truths in undiscovered lands". In Wordsworth's words, the "visionary gleam" has "fled", childhood has been left, and with it that ability to view all things equally. In this way we can see the "seek[ing]" as both his entrance into adulthood and the subsequent search to return to the ways of experiencing from childhood. The "strange truths in undiscovered lands" in this context are equated with the new things he has to learn to live in the realm of conscious thought day-in and day-out, as well as those experiences and perceptions that do not fall into the ordinary connotations of "reality", thus the possibility to find "truths in undiscovered lands", an idea that at first may seem contradictory, but that in analysis proves essential for actually discovering any "truths". The way in which he travels to these "undiscovered lands" of the mind is described as Shelley tells us
Nature's most secret steps
He like her shadow has pursued[.] (ll. 81-82)
The wording of these two lines prepares us for where it is that he "pursue[s]" "her shadow", and the way in which we should be prepared to think about the experience(s) he is to have. There are two ways in which one could read this section, either having the young poet pursuing "Nature's...steps" in the same way that he "pursue[s]" "her shadow", or having it that he is pursuing the "steps" in the same way that "Nature's... shadow" "pursue[s]" her "steps", in the same way a shadow "pursue[s]" anyone's steps. The first interpretation is easy enough to consider, for it shows that the young poet is following all aspects of "Nature", be it "her" "steps" or "her shadow" or whatever. The second interpretation adds a different twist to the idea of this obsession, one that brings us closer to the young poet's expansion of perception, one that allows us to more carefully examine Shelley's use of objective words to create a scene that, although at first may seem confusing, is one that allows for the "reality" of all sorts of experience and perception, not strictly that which we normally term "real", those things which are ordinary. A shadow does not only "pursue" one's "steps", but is one with those "steps" - no steps, no shadow, and, by the same token, no shadow, no steps. Following this train of thought, and pointing out that shadows are alterations in the patterns of light due to some object coming between the light and another object at a further distance from the light than the first object, we can begin to examine the issue of "what is real?", and start to apply it to the instances of perception considered in the works that follow. Shadows are something that we all take as "real" enough, that is, we all can see them, they are objective enough that when one says the word "shadow" there is no question as to what is being discussed. This accepted, we can now re-consider that idea, for if there were a shadow present without an object visible to be the "possessor" of or the causal agent for the shadow, then we would either question its reality, or doubt its existence and repress the experience. In a roundabout way, one which will be more closely discussed at length, we can see how metaphorically this can be connected with perception, memories, and mind, and, therefore, possibilities of immortality, for if shadows can exist without any physically "with-seeing-eye-visibility", then memories could exist without a physicality as well. The intricacies of this, when applied to the concept of personal identity contingent upon memory, would lead to some version of immortality. This, of course, does beg the question of how those memories would manifest themselves to allow for a personal to be connected with identity. For the time being, we shall leave this question, in part, to more fully examine the issues behind this question, issues that will allow us to develop certain theories on perception and experience that are essential in considering the question of memories as immortal agents.
The manner in which Shelley's poet "pursue[s]" "her [Nature's] shadow" (and, in turn, the places in which he does this) is in
the secret caves,
Rugged and dark, winding among the springs
Of fire and poison, inaccessible
To avarice or pride, their starry domes
Of diamond and of gold expand above
Numberless and immeasurable halls,
Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite. (ll. 87-94)
The reason for my highlighting the fact that this "pursu[ing]" is done in a manner rather than a place, but that a place does exist in this manner, is because we are not looking strictly at a spatial "place" in which this "pursu[ing]" is taking place. Herein lies a linguistic difficulty. In essence, the young poet is "looking" in a "place", but we can not call "the mind" a place as it does not spatially exist "somewhere" (any more than do memories) except in its own "where", temporarily and causally dependent upon some physicality that does have its existence in some spatiality (the brain). However, in the description of these "secret caves", Shelley attempts to bridge this gap which often leads to the terms "real", with a "somewhere" implied, and "un-real", with a "where" implied, by imaging a scene that is the impetus for the break from ordinary experience to that of aesthetic experience. First, we have the "secret caves", connoting some idea of something hidden, that which is not readily accessible or findable. The fact that that which is "secret" is the "caves", and the archetypal and primordial connections of "caves", darkness, protection, shadows of the past, brings the reader closer to the mindset of the young poet as he "pursue[s]". This would seem a passing allusion to the differing realms of experience and perception if it were not for the fact that Shelley describes these "secret caves" as being "[r]ugged and dark, winding..." and "inaccessible". To take in the full effect that Shelley is building to, we shall first look at the words chosen to create these "caves", then backtrack to examine the structure in which the words are arranged to create the feeling of the "caves".
As has been mentioned, the "secret caves" are described first as being "[r]ugged and dark". By doing this, Shelley gives these places a physical dimension that is easily associated with "caves", rough formations in the rock that are not illuminated on the inside. From here we are led into the "caves", as it were, being told that they are "winding among the springs/ Of fire and poison". As the image created by Shelley's words up to the word "winding" is that of these "[r]ugged and dark" "caves", immediately one connects the word "winding" with that which is inside the "caves" in which the young poet is searching for "Nature" and her "secret steps", etc., thus leading further into these "caves". However, as the word "winding" is read, the instantaneous, split-second assumption that this is a description of the interior of the "caves" is proven not entirely correct, for we find that that which is "winding" is not the interior of these "[r]ugged and dark" places per se, but the exterior physicalities of the "caves" themselves; that is to say, interior is causally dependent upon exterior, but not defined by it, and therefore equating the idea of entirety with exteriority is wrong. The distinction here between the exterior "cave" and the interior is small, but necessary, for, although one would seem to be dependent upon the other, the interior upon the exterior and vice versa, this is not necessarily so. Syntactically speaking, "[r]ugged and dark" is describing the entirety of the "caves", as it is separated from the "caves" by commas, and "winding" the exterior of them, as it follows the break in thought brought on by the commas. What, then, is the important difference between exterior and entire? The answer would seem to be "interior", an answer that seems obvious at first, but more confusing as one considers the previous argument of the need for the distinction between "the exterior 'cave' and the interior", for the question and answer seem to fall into a cyclical pattern. However, using these lines (87-94) as example, we can see that the problem is somewhat easily explained, for it is the "caves" themselves that are "winding among the springs/ Of fire and poison", imaged perhaps as a scene with said "caves" in the midst of bubbling streams of some volatile nature. If one were to enter one of these "caves", the "springs" would no longer be along side, as they are outside the mouth of the "caves". This, too, would seem an obvious point to make, but necessary if we are to examine the lines and descriptions that follow this "winding", for Shelley tells us that the "caves" which are "winding" are "inaccessible/ To avarice and pride". In doing this, the "caves" are no longer strictly the exterior semblances surrounded by "springs/ Of fire and poison", but they assume their entirety, both exterior and interior, and become "inaccessible" to these modes of thought, "avarice and pride". This change in what aspect of the "caves" is being expanded upon is not so sudden if one considers the subtle nuances between the exterior of the "caves", that which is readily apparent to the eye, and the entirety of these places, which is often confused as being that which the exterior is since we can see the exterior and make judgments on interior. Again, this can be determined by Shelley's use of commas, for, as with "[r]ugged and dark", the "winding" description is set off from the main issue of these "caves". Admittedly, if one reads through this section quickly, the separations created by the commas gives the whole piece a contiguous effect, tying the entirety of the cave into its oneness. However, the entirety is not allowed for if the fine nuances between exterior and interior and whole are not considered.
Following this "[r]ugged and dark" description, we are told that that which the exterior of these "caves" is "winding among" is "the springs/ Of fire and poison". This adds to the "secret" nature of the "caves", for now they are not only hidden and "secret", but they are surrounded by these "springs" that are treacherous to pass, and therefore "inaccessible/ To avarice and pride". By doing this, Shelley gives the "caves" a more intense level of "secre[cy]", but not forbidden, for the only thing they are "inaccessible" to is "avarice or pride", not "avarice or pride or anything or anyone else". In breaking down this fragment to this point, we can see that the main statement is that "the secret caves....[are] inaccessible/ To avarice or pride", and can now overcome the earlier difficulty with exactly what the word "caves" entails, be it exterior, exterior but not interior, or both exterior and interior. The "caves" segue from lines 87 to mid-89, where they are described as and left as simply the exterior, to the end of 89 and following to where we enter "into" the "caves" and the interior is what is being discussed. It is here that the entirety of the cave would seem to come into being, exterior and interior merging, and the aesthetic experience comes to fruition as the contrasts of the words that Shelley has chosen take on the function of attempting to write the visual and alter and question the realms of what we have come to call "reality".
The young poet's visionary experience is textually manifested by Shelley's opposition of the different descriptive terms for the "caves". First there is "[r]ugged and dark", then "fire and poison", and "avarice and pride". "[D]ark" lingers in the reader's thoughts as line 89 begins and "fire" is read, the contrasts in illumination playing in the closed-eye landscape where the scene is being created. This is followed by the connection between "poison" and its next descriptive segue, "avarice". Considering that "poison" is used first with "fire", and as a property for the "springs" around the "secret caves", the fact that the next word used in reference to properties of the "caves" is "avarice" is worth mentioning, as it adds a new level to the definition of both "poison" and "avarice", one enhancing the other once the two have been read. These observations, in and of themselves, would not seem to warrant any great discussion, for they are merely looking at the way the scene that the young poet is travelling through is being created. However, in the manner that these three sets of terms commence each of the three lines, 88, 89, and 90, a rhythmic pattern is created, building momentum, ebbing and flowing with each description. By doing this the words take on a new function, one which is attempting to go beyond merely describing the "caves", to alter the realm of experience for the reader - "[r]ugged and dark", "fire and poison", "avarice or pride", the rhythm established and paced out by the interspersed "winding among the springs" and "inaccessible". With this pattern set, Shelley then begins to alter the experience from the realm of the ordinary to that of the aesthetic by showing us the "starry domes/ Of diamond and of gold", the "and" echoing and continuing the rhythm. These "starry domes" are where ordinary experience changes into the aesthetic, "domes" being reminiscent of the "solitary dome" from line 43, which was also a step towards the aesthetic in its "spots of time" set up. Here, as before, Shelley adds new dimensions to the words and scenes by challenging our thoughts and abilities to image that which has been established as perception. We are taken from the extremes of "[r]ugged and dark" to "starry domes/ Of diamond and of gold" in a matter of four lines, after which Shelley continues to build the scene, keeping the rhythm as the lines are seemingly held together with the "and"s. Line 92 introduces again the question of exactly what "entirety" entails for these "caves", for we are told that the "starry domes", which are "in" these caverns, are resident in "[n]umberless and immeasurable halls". How can this be, if the exterior of these "caves" have a definitive location, a dimensional construct? The words themselves, "[n]umberless and immeasurable", have a certain immortal feel about them, a sense of the infinite inherent in their connotations, which is an important point to notice as we attempt to see how the aesthetic experience can aid us in coming closer to discovering just what our "immortal part" is. This, however, does not explain how a "cave", a physical place bounded by rocks, dirt, and trees, can have an infinite amount of "immeasurable halls" inside it - unless we allow for differences in the temporal and spatial dimensional qualities of the exterior and the interior of the "caves". By doing this, the exterior of the "caves" can exist as "[r]ugged and dark" objects amongst the "springs" in the physical world, and the interior of the "caves", where the "[n]umberless and immeasurable halls" are, in their own where. This is similar to the way we can have huge mountainous landscapes in our dreams, landscapes that could never physically be present within the constraints of our skulls, but that can exist nonetheless. Granted, dreams are not a place we can visit in waking hours, and these "halls" are places where the young poet goes in search of "Nature's most secret steps", so there is a definite difference between the two as far as creating an example to demonstrate the viability of their existence. However, the only difference is that of perception, and since we are dealing with a young poet who is in search of a higher form of experience, the problem is made considerably easier. A way of illustrating this would be to picture the mountainous landscape previously mentioned (from the dream) in the distance, behind a person, far enough away so that the person's head appears larger than the mountains. The only problem now is that of perspective, and the fact that we "know" that the mountains are miles away, not directly next to the person. This point of "what we know" is secondary to the argument, though, as we are attempting to recognize how these "halls", infinite in number and size, can exist in relation to the physicalities of the finite dimensions of the "caves". Perspective is a physical dimension, required for the act of moving about in these worlds, be they of these "senses five" or not, but one that needs to be re-examined and not taken for granted if we are to truly be able to consider these "halls" that Shelley describes to us. And, by doing this, we allow ourselves to come closer to sharing the experiences that the young poet is to have as the poem progresses.
Intertwined with these altered dimensional descriptions, are the objects present within, "crystal column[s]", "clear shrines/ Of pearl", and "chrysolite" "thrones", all of which are in these "starry domes/ Of diamond and of gold". These objects are not ones that one encounters on an everyday basis, they are foreign to our normal experiences. As such, they contrast even more sharply with the connotations of "[r]ugged and dark" "caves", for not only are they bright and shiny, but they are not often seen. Therefore, Shelley tells us:
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty
Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven
And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims
To love and wonder[.] (ll. 95-8)
The wording here is essential, for it attempts to further explain to the reader these dimensional nuances. We are told that it is not only "gems [and] gold" that "that scene of ampler majesty" "had". By beginning line 95 with the word "[n]or", Shelley makes his point more clear than if he written it as "[t]hat scene of ampler majesty had not only/ Gems and gold". He writes "[n]or had that scene...", and in doing so stresses the fact that it is not only these objects that this "scene of ampler majesty" possesses. However, we are not told specifically what else there is that this "scene" has, so the question is asked, what does this scene have beyond "gems or gold"? As this section continues, Shelley does not answer this question, but rather tells us what effect this "scene" has upon the young poet: "the varying roof of heaven/ And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims/ To love and wonder". This would seem to allow for two interpretations, two ideas of how the young poet is affected by this "scene", and in looking at these we can come to answer the question of what there is in these "caves" beyond "gems or gold" that makes it a "scene of ampler majesty".
As we have already discussed, when one changes from one realm of experience to another, from ordinary experience to aesthetic, questionings of what "real" is arise. With these types of questionings, ones that make us reconsider that which we term "realistic", ones that make us re-think that which we take for granted, it is easy to block out and repress those extra-ordinary experiences, ignoring them entirely. This is not to say that the perception has not been made a causal resident as memory in the brain, but that, by repressing it, it is not readily accessible as a recollection. With this in mind, we can take another look at the second half of line 97 and on into line 98: "...lost in his heart its claims/ To love and wonder". With the previous argument as a framework, we can read this line as saying that this "scene" is "lost in his heart"; "its claims" are "lost" "[t]o love and wonder" "in his heart". This would imply that he has perceived the "scene", he has experienced the "[n]umberless and immeasurable halls", but that these experiences have been "lost", misplaced, not immediately findable, "in his heart". My stress here on "in" and "his" is to make it clear that the perception has been taken in by him, his senses have been stimulated, it is only a matter of him not being able to recall the "claims" of the "scene". It is as if the perception of "the varying roof of heaven/ And the green earth" was too much for his "senses five" to take in, too many questionings of reality became existent, and he "lost" these "claims" of that which he has experienced.
At the same time, without dismissing the former argument, we can read these two lines as more of an interaction between the "scene" and the young poet, by attaching a feeling of romance to the word "lost". At first this may seem to be indiscriminately placing a feeling upon the effect of the "scene" on the young poet, but, with consideration for the rest of the poem, as well as consideration for what Shelley himself had to say about the poem, we see that this romantic connection is not unworthy of our attention. He tells us in his Preface to this poem that "[t]he magnificence and beauty of the external world sinks profoundly into the frame of his conceptions and affords to their modifications a variety not to be exhausted." From this we can see that this "magnificence and beauty" "affords", gives to "their modifications a variety" that can not be used up. The "their" here is the possessive of the young poet's "conceptions", his senses, his modes of perception. In this manner we can see that "Nature's most secret steps" are giving to him the abilities to see both "with" and "through" the eye - not as a tangible gift, but through the contrasts in forms and light and sound, those things which affect his senses, that allow him to change between ordinary and aesthetic experiences. However, it is of the utmost importance to remember that Shelley has told us that the young poet is "seek[ing] strange truths", not just allowing them to happen and be experienced. By not realizing and analyzing that which "Nature" is revealing to him, he "los[es] in his heart its claims". In this is the difference evident in Wordsworth's "penetrat[ion]" of the "spots of time", where the individual is affected and unable to find the correct "colours and words" to describe the scene, but still attempts to do so. In doing this, attempting to describe with words that do not do justice to the experience had, making some effort to go from a solitary experience to one that can be shared on some level, the "spots of time" are realized, not "lost". Shelley's young poet, however, is "penetrate[d]" by this "scene", but does not realize that which he has seen, thereby "los[ing]" the power inherent in the perception of "the varying roof of heaven/ And the green earth". This, then, is what is "in" these "caves" besides the "gems [and] gold", this power that allows for and triggers a change in perception, stimulating that/those other sense/s which leads to experiencing the aesthetic.
The young poet ignores these "claims", and we are told that "he would linger long/ In lonesome vales" (98-99). Shelley's use of the word "lonesome" here returns the reader's thoughts to the feeling of "solitude" exhibited by line 60, and reminds the reader that it is because the young poet does not realize these experiences that this "solitude" arises.
He lingered, poring on memorials
Of the world's youth: through the long burning day
Gazed on those speechless shapes; nor, when the moon
Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed
And gazed, till the meaning on his vacant mind
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. (ll. 121-28)
"He lingered", we are told, and a feeling of boredom seems to be established, "poring on memorials". By ending this line with the word "memorials", Shelley again takes advantage of the split-second imagery and thoughts associated with this word before the next line is read. "[M]emorials" bring to one's thoughts pictures of objects, physical reminders of something from the past, be it an event, a person, or a group of people. Before the reader's eyes travel from line 121 to 122, the scene created in one's mind might be that of the young poet staring at some stone "memorial" or other, perhaps an epitaph, somewhat like young Wordsworth in The Prelude. However, as line 122 is read, we discover that it is not some physical object that this poet is "poring on", rather it is the "memorials/ Of the world's youth". This makes the meaning and concept inherent in these "memorials" far more interesting, as it takes them from being symbolic, physical icons to a more intense, provoking level. With the reference to "the world's youth", and the fact that the young poet is "poring on [their] memorials", Shelley reminds us that the poet is no longer a child, that he has entered into adulthood, changed his modes of thought to those of the alert, conscious realm. This allows for a dual understanding of what these "memorials" are, both as linguistic constructs, and as memories from childhood. The former interpretation demonstrates the way in which we, in our "youth", are able to experience both ordinarily and aesthetically with no questionings of what "real" is. In childhood we have not yet been imbued with the objective linguistic constructs that do not allow for the existence or "reality" of phenomena. This interpretation ties into the second, the notion that these "memorials" are memories, for our memories contain those experiences from our "youth" that were not questioned as to how "real" they were, and therefore we can see why the young poet would be "poring on" them as "[h]e lingered". We are then told that he does this "through the long burning day", and are given a temporal setting for how long this "linger[ing]" would happen. At first it would seem that this is not such a long time, only a "day". But Shelley does not simply write "through the day", he writes "through the long burning day", making a 24 hour period of time seem longer than merely 24 hours, as if in "poring on" these thoughts he is removed from the physical realm of temporal existence as he "[g]azed on those speechless shapes". This last segment makes this assessment possible, for, as has been mentioned, Shelley distinguishes between modes of "seeing", "[g]az[ing]" being a mode in which we see "through" the eye, not "with" it. If the young poet is seeing "through" the eye as he "[g]aze[s]", then he is not seeing in a physical way, and therefore he is not subject to the physical temporal relations of the "day" at hand. This is made more obvious as we look at what is being "[g]azed" at - "speechless shapes". This is reminiscent of line 39 and the "incommunicable dream", and similar to Wordsworth's inability to find the correct "[c]olours and words" to describe the scene that he had seen upon "reascending the bare slope", for the word "speechless", indicating a failure in language, is used to describe "shapes", a word that, in and of itself, is not extremely descriptive of any strict form, just a general term for some object. In this way we can see why Shelley's poet "[g]azed" at these "shapes", for, in seeing "with" the eye, one usually attempts to place some value judgment as to the "real-ness" of what is being seen. He is seeing "through" the eye, and therefore not judging what is seen, and can accept these objects as "speechless shapes". He continues to "[g]aze", as we are told that even "when the moon/ Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades" he did not "[s]uspend...that task". The word and line structure here is noteworthy, as line 123 ends with the word "moon", contrasting the last word in line 122, "day", a sharp difference in illumination created to accompany the change in modes of perception that the young poet is going through as he starts to see these "floating shades". Added to this is the hypnotic rhythm created by the repetition of the word "gazed", tying lines 125 and 126 together ("but ever gazed/ And gazed"), the structure of the poem attempting to lead the reader into a state similar to the one the poet is entering. This rhythm is snapped out of as the word "till" transforms the ordinary into the aesthetic and the poet's "vacant mind" is "[f]lashed" with the "meaning", "like strong inspiration", "and he saw/ The thrilling secrets of the birth of time". There are several aspects of this that are intriguing. First there is the fact that Shelley chose to start line 127 with the word "[f]lashed" so that it would be capitalized, giving it a feeling of visual onomatopoeia, blinding the reader as well as the poet. By using the word "[f]lashed", Shelley also stresses that this is an instantaneous event, an intense burst of light that comes into existence and is gone in a blink of the eye. But in that fraction of a second, "the meaning", all of it, not "some of the meaning" or "parts of the meaning", but its entirety, is "[f]lashed" "on his vacant mind". This would take the event almost out of the temporal dimensions that we are accustomed to, similar to the "at that time" in Wordsworth's account of the "spot of time" at the "naked pool", as we are not accustomed to receiving information ("the meaning") in an instantaneous fashion. Before we proceed, this last point must be clarified. I have suggested that we are "not accustomed to receiving information in an instantaneous fashion". This is, essentially, factual, as our brains are not accustomed to rapidly processing vast amounts of external information, safely assuming that this "meaning" is an enormous amount of information (as we see in line 128). However, the amount of rapid processing our brains do ordinarily is immense, with all of the neurons that fire off to keep us balanced, breathing, blood flowing, environmental surroundings deciphered, etc., so we should not under-estimate what the brain can do in any given instant. Added to this is the fact that as we perceive events, that is, exist, our brains transform those perceptions into memories, stored as energy, which, under healthy conditions, can be recalled. Imagine these memories as small films, individual frames coming together at high speeds to create a continuous, flowing event. If the film is stopped at any given point, one frame will be showing - one instant from the whole event, the whole memory - that we can look at "through" the eye, and examine the picture present in detail. So in saying that our brains are not accustomed to rapidly processing, implying understanding, vast amounts of external information, I mean to say that we are not accustomed to doing this due to the fact that it can be extremely difficult to re-play a memory back and stop it short to "look" at one frame of it to "see" all the specifics there - but it is possible, as we can metaphorically see with the way Shelley describes how this "[f]lash" happens - "like strong inspiration". When we are "inspir[ed]" we are struck with an instantaneous idea, a still-frame, a moment in time. In this lies why we are not accustomed to rapidly processing information, for, if this action is similar to "inspiration", and we are not constantly "inspir[ed]", then we are out of practice in being able to quickly understand vast amounts of information being fired at us at once.
The location that Shelley tells us where this "meaning" goes to is "on [the] vacant mind" of the young poet. Had we been told that the "meaning" went "on his brain", then we might start asking "where exactly on the brain did it go?", and assume that, since a physical location was where the "meaning" went, the eye had been looked "with" physically, not "through", the young poet had been "watching" rather than "gazing". Shelley did not send these "[f]lashe[s]" "to the brain"; "on his vacant mind" "the meaning" "[f]lashed". And it is here that the "gaz[ing]" transforms into "seeing", the implication being that some term of "reality" has been given to what is happening, as we find out that "he saw/ The thrilling secrets of the birth of time." The ordinary modes of experience are transcended and the young poet enters into the realm of the aesthetic, he is no longer perceiving the "lonesome vales" around him, but is seeing the alpha, the origins, "[t]he thrilling secrets of the birth of time."
One would think that Shelley's young poet would now be placated, that he could rest, return to the realm of ordinary experience, and contemplate, now that "Nature" has given to him these "thrilling secrets". He has experienced the aesthetic, and now must attempt to use the constructs of ordinary language to explain that which he has perceived and had "[f]lashed" "on his vacant mind". However, he does not react in the same manner as Shelley tells us that he did/does in his Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, Stanzas VI and VII:
I vowed that I would dedicate my powers
To thee and thine - have I not kept the vow?
* * * *
Thus let thy power, which like the truth
Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply
Its calm, - to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee[.]
The young poet in Alastor does not "worship" these "secrets" of Nature, rather, he continues to "pursue" and search for more "meaning", seemingly unsatisfied with that which he has experienced. He finds himself "in the vale of Cashmire" (145), and it is there, "far within/ Its loneliest dell" (145-46) where he "stretche[s]/ His languid limbs" (148-49). Again a feeling of solitude is stressed (with "loneliest"), and we are told that
[a] vision on his sleep
There came, a dream of hopes that never yet
Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veilèd maid
Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones.
Her voice was like the voice of his own soul
Heard in the calm of thought; its music long,
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held
His inmost sense suspended in its web
Of many-colored woof and shifting hues.
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme,
And lofty hopes of divine liberty,
Thoughts most dear to him, and poesy,
Herself a poet. (ll. 149-61)
Before this, the young poet was "linger[ing]", "poring", and "gaz[ing]", and by this breaking into the realm of aesthetic experience, but he ignored this, and continued to look for more "secret steps". By doing this he does not return entirely to modes of ordinary perception, and this experience seemingly triggers itself upon him. Essentially, he falls asleep and has a dream. That, in and of itself, would not seem to warrant much of a discussion, for his eyes are not open during this experience as they were in the "lonesome vales" and "the secret caves". However, the way this "dream" happens is extremely important, for Shelley does not write "[he] had a dream", rather "[a] vision on his sleep/ There came". This would seem to imply that this "vision" arrives of its own accord somehow, that it is not something conjured up by the young poet. The subject of this fragment is not the young poet, instead it is this "vision", making the young poet the object, that which is being affected by the "dream", not the other way around, with him being the one who is having this "vision". Granted, it is the poet who is having a dream, for that is how dreams "work", but, when having a dream, or when slipping between realms of experience, as when one is extremely tired, it would seem that these "vision[s]" happen of their own accord, independently of one's self, one's thoughts, and that they come into being without any assistance from that which is/should be the subject rather than the object. Shelley, in attempting to describe that which is happening to the poet (a seemingly contradictory concept, based on my last point, but one that I shall explain forthwith), makes the poet the object of the "vision", and can therefore create the images and perceptions that follow.
Before we examine the words and images of this "vision", my argument that "that which is happening to the poet" is not a contradiction with regard to the idea that it is the poet who is having the dream must be justified. There does not seem to be an efficient way in the English language to truly express the notion of a reflexive action, an action that is inherent in the subject. Other languages offer this reflexive by use of special verb forms, and, in this case, "is happening to", the French se passer would more eloquently express the idea that is trying to be established. In French, "that which is happening to the poet" would translate to "ça q§a que se passe aète", "that which is happening to/of the poet". In this way we can see that the object is connected to and part of the subject, one can not exist without the other, this reflexiveness becomes interconnecting. It is this reflexive property that is inherent in dreams, for the poet has the "vision", but does not have any significant amount of control over what the dream does, any more than one does with any experience that one has. No matter how much one may attempt to "design an experience", attempt to set up all the variables and take account for outside events, there is always going to be some factor, no matter how small, that s/he will not have figured for or considered. This is what makes an experience an experience, this phenomenological aspect of things that happen to and of themselves. It is this that we see in the young poet's dream.
We are told that this sort of "vision" was a "dream of hope that never yet/ Had flushed his cheek", the "yet" here standing for more than it has previously. Here we are not reading a "yet" that implies the possibility of an event happening, rather this "yet" is telling us that until this occasion a "dream" of this sort has never been experienced by him. This point, although minor, is one that must be brought out in the poem, for without it the reader may fall under the assumption that these types of "vision[s]" are common in the poet's "dream[s]". By telling us that this sort of "dream" "[h]ad" "never yet" "flushed his cheek", Shelley establishes the fact that a new experience is about to be had, one unlike anything the poet has perceived before, which is a necessary point to be made since we have been told of the other experiences and perceptions that he has had, and might become mistaken and think that this sort of "dream of hopes" is on the same level as those. This event is not, as we shall see, as the word "flushed" slightly echoes "[f]lashed" from line 127 and the implications present there, and gives us a small hint that something extraordinary is about to come to pass.
The "dream" itself begins ordinarily enough, with a "veilèd" young maiden sitting "ear" the poet. However, as before, we have a spatial arrangement set before us, the poet in one location, this "maid" "near" him, in a place that does not "exist" in any physical realm. Had this description of the "vision" ended here, or stayed within these parameters, there would be nothing beyond the previous "dream examples" that we have examined to discuss. The description does continue, and adds another dimension, one that has been mentioned previously, but that here is expounded upon. This "veilèd maid" is said to be "talking in low solemn tones". By doing this, Shelley not only creates a sense of the mystical with the fact that these are "low" and "solemn" sounds being spoken, but also allows for sound without any physical apparatus for it; the ear is not employed to hear that which is being said. So how does the poet "hear" these "low solemn tones"? The next two lines answer this question, in part, as we are told further that "[h]er voice was like the voice of his own soul/ Heard in the calm of thought". This would seem to locate the area where he can hear these "tones" in "his own soul", in his mind, as he compares "[h]er voice" with the "voice" he can hear in his "thought[s]". By way of this comparison, this "maid['s]" "voice" is equated with the "voice" of the poet's "soul"/mind. In this manner it becomes a reflexive "voice" that is occurring, inherent in and of the poet, and as such, we can begin to see these "vision[s]" as experiences brought on by but not the objects of "Nature's most secret steps". By closely following and analyzing the way in which the young poet is being affected by these aesthetic experiences we can slowly start to realize that these altered states of perception are "in" his mind. This does not make them any less real than if they were happening for all to perceive, but that is secondary to the point being made. "Nature", the "belovèd brotherhood" around him, is the igniting spark for the "[f]lashe[s]" and "flushe[s]" upon the poet, but it is the "soul"/mind of the poet that is undergoing and processing these experiences, turning them into memories, causally storing them, and making them an integral part of what is him, that is to say, his personal continuity. This too we can see in Shelley's description of the "vision", the "dream of hopes", as we read that this "voice['s]" "tones" are equated with "music", that is "[l]ike woven sounds of streams and breezes". This is extremely reminiscent of lines 48 to 49 where we were given the "woven hymns/ Of night and day", not only because of the repetition of the word "woven", nor because of the connection between "hymns" and "music", but because of the implications of "w[ea]v[ing]" these "sounds of streams and breezes", especially with respect to the line that follows.
At line 156 we discover this "woven" "music" is "h[o]ld[ing]" "[h]is inmost sense". What is "[h]is inmost sense"? And if we can answer this question, do we have the answer for what other sense/s we have beyond our "senses five"? To attempt to discover what this "inmost sense" is, we must first analyze how it is "held" by the "music" - it is "suspended in its [the "music['s]"] web/ Of many-colored woof and shifting hues." By analyzing this we are made more aware of the connection discussed in reference to lines 45 to 49, where the relationship between various forms of energy is seen to seemingly create a universal construct where humans are another "modulat[ion]".15 To do this it is essential to consider the other ways in which the word "suspended" can be used in this context, and what images come into one's thoughts if one were to define "suspended" with one or both of these words, the words being "held" and "located". If one chooses to think of "suspended" as "held", then the imagery of the "web" is called into one's thoughts, perhaps as a spider's "web", with the "inmost sense" hanging in the midst of this "many-colored woof and shifting hue...". This imagery maintains the visionary scene, as has been discussed. But if we take this example one step further, and read "suspended" as "located", by way of connecting "suspended" with "held", and "held" with "located", and, therefore, "suspended" with "located", transitively, we come to see this "inmost sense" "located" in this "web", in his mind. In doing this we can more fully see how this visionary experience, and subsequent ones, are "located" within him, and not the result of some external agent. Again, we must realize that the interaction between the external realm and the internal realm is necessary for these experiences to take place, and that "located in" is not entirely correct, as there is no physical, spatial "in" for these events to happen, but we are coming closer to analyzing the relationship between experience and perception, and, through this, the relationship between perception and memory. By doing this we can see the importance of these "vision[s]" as relates to being able to surpass our "senses five".
Shelley, in choosing these words to describe this "vision on [the young poet's] sleep", emphasizes the inter-relation between the external world and the causally internal realm of the mind. Line 157 presents us with the "woven sounds of streams and breezes", and these, we are told, "held/ His inmost sense". This is straightforward enough, taken at face value, as it expresses the young poet's pre-occupation with Nature, manifested in this "dream of hopes". But the words used go beyond a simple pre-occupation, and develop into a construct that connects this "inmost sense" with the "vision on his sleep", suggesting that the way in which we may go beyond our "senses five" can be demonstrated through dreams and sleep, where our outward senses are temporarily turned off, less sensitive, not as easily stimulated. "His inmost sense [is] suspended in its web", the word "woven" from the previous line reflected by definition in the word "web", entwining and enveloping this "inmost sense" into the "web/ Of many-colored woof and shifting hues". Again, Shelley's choice of words to describe the manner in which this "inmost sense" is stimulated is intriguing, for we are not simply told that it is metaphorically hanging in this web and then introduced to a new line; he describes this "web" as having "many-colored woof and shifting hues". This adds a new depth to the "web", for instead of an object that, although three dimensional, is relatively flat (as a spider's "web"), a more intricate, many levelled, deeper "web" is designed and imaged, one with seemingly more dimensions to it. The "woven sounds" are echoed in the "many-colored woof" with the imagery of threads crossing over and under one another in weaving, across the warp, entangling but/and becoming one with the "inmost sense". The "shifting hues" seem to hint at the fine nuances of these "many-color[s]", and, therefore, the "sounds", and, ultimately, the nuances between ordinary perception and the aesthetic, beyond the "senses five". Does this, then, give us the answer to what "[h]is inmost sense" is? It would seem that, as the next two lines allude, the answer would be that this "sense" is the mind, his "immortal part", as in Wordsworth's "years that bring the philosophic mind",16 a search for wisdom.
Shelley tells us that "[k]nowledge and truth and virtue were her theme". With this "inmost sense suspended" and made part of this "woven" "web", we can make the connection between the mind and memories and the search for wisdom, and in doing so can seek out the relationship between perception and memories. It is interesting to note lines 160 to 161, "...and poesy,/ Herself a poet", "[h]erself" being the "veilèd maid" from his "vision", for they seem to be echoed, six years later, in the ideas expressed in his Defence of Poetry (1821), where he states that
A poet participates in the eternal, the infinite, the one; as far as relates to his conceptions, time and place and number are not.
In considering this, and applying the "conceptions" that the "poet" has to the nature of this "vision" that the young poet is experiencing, it is possible to conceive the properties of these aesthetic perceptions. If "time and place and number are not", then we are dealing with something that is removed from the judgment of the criteria that we usually use to determine the extent of its "reality".
The "suspen[sion]" of "[h]is inmost sense" is a pre-cursor to and a spark for the visionary experience that follows, from line 162 to line 191. As we read through these lines, we are presented with a third person account of the young poet's encounter with this "veilèd maid" (151), an encounter that seems to go beyond the realm of dream and "vision", an encounter that seems to bring the aesthetic experience into the realm of ordinary experience for the young poet. At line 183 to 184, he "spread his arms to meet/ Her panting bosom". At first it would seem that this is strictly his "dream of hopes" (150), and therefore not of paramount importance as far as questions of "reality" are concerned. However, we read further to see that the young poet,
yielding to the irresistible joy,
With frantic gesture and short breathless cry
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. (ll. 185-87)
As he is embracing his "vision", she "dissolv[es]", or, he begins to awake. But Shelley does not put it that simply. He writes that "[n]ow blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night/ Involved and swallowed up the vision". He still has not had the young poet awake, he is still caught between his aesthetic experience and ordinary experience. It is not until he describes "sleep,/ Like a dark flood suspended in its course" (189-90) that he has the young poet awake. The word "suspended" here seems to echo the "suspended" of line 156 which described what had been done to his "inmost sense" in the "web" of the "veilèd maid['s]" "music", for here it implies that, like his "inmost sense", the "course" of "sleep" had been "suspended" for the duration of the "music". If this is the case, then the young poet has not been dreaming in a conventional sense at all throughout this experience, rather, he has been awake, but not perceiving in an awake fashion. His aesthetic experience is his ordinary experience at this time. Shelley then snaps us back from this experience as "sleep...rolled back its impulse on his [the young poet's] vacant brain".17 The young poet is "[r]oused by the shock, he started from his trance".18 This line gives us insight to both what he has perceived through the aesthetic experience, as well as how he is affected. Again we have the recurring theme of energy, "the shock", which acknowledges this non-physical event as much of a sensual one as if it had been experienced when awake. "[T]he shock" here is one of awakening from the dream, being faced with two different realities in rapid succession, from seeing the eyes to seeing the sky or whatever was visible to his physical eyes upon changing modes of perception. This is the reason that "he started from his trance", and in this we find an interesting link to beginning to understand and attempt to realize how important the aesthetic experience is to ordinary experience, and vice versa. The word "started", taken strictly in this context, means "came to from", "quickly aroused from" "his trance", which is the result of this "shock". However, "started" also brings to one's thoughts notions of beginnings, and if we follow this strain we can read this line as saying that when "[r]oused by the shock, he began from his trance", implying that it is now that he can begin to transform the perceptions from his altered realm of experience in dreams into memories that he can access to gain wisdom from (by re-thinking and examining that which has happened).
It is now that we can turn to what the effects of aesthetic experience can have upon a person, both when it is allowed to be recognized as a valid reality, and when it is not. By doing this we can begin to examine the slight differences in modes of perception, and how these events become memories, and to what extent imagination plays upon these events. This, in turn, leads us to consider sleep and dreams more in depth, when that which is experienced when the external senses are not fully utilized is so convincingly real that one must struggle to make the distinction as to whether or not it physically happened, or if it was strictly a mental event. If sensual activity is attainable at this level, then the "senses five" have been surpassed, and our experience/s becomes more full.
Notes for Part Three:
1 From the OED we see that in 1605, Francis Bacon, in The Advancement of Learning, I.vi.§4, wrote "[t]o descend from spirits and intellectual forms to sensible and material forms." Norris' Ideal World, II.iv.271 (1704) reads "[b]y intellectual objects I mean those objects which the mind perceives, without having any such impressions made upon the body." Monboddo's Language, I.I.iv.45 (1774) says "the faculty by which it [the mind] operates singly, and without participation of the body, I call intellect." Thus "beyond the senses". 2 Blake, William. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. 3 See above, Part One, p. 19. 4 See above, pp. 52-58. 5 Also, this is not to say that the "spots of time" will not be suppressed and ignored by our conscious thought processes, not allowed to be comprehended even though they have been perceived. However, this does not mean that they have not occurred, and are not then "stored" as memories. 6 Blake. Augeries of Innocence, ll. 125-28. 7 See page 66-68. 8 Alastor, line 1. 9 See p. 70 for the discussion of this line in relationship to the Ode. 10 Line 31. 11 Line 37. 12 Davy, Sir Humphry, Elements of Chemical Philosophy, p. 67. 13 Ibid., pp. 126ff. 14 Ibid., pp. 195-201ff. 15 Page 98. 16 Lines 180-187 of the Ode. See pp. 76-80 for fuller discussion of these lines. 17 Alastor, ll. 189, 191. 18 Line 192.